


Nicotine and Bruises

by deanlovescock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel Stays, Dean smokes in this, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Pre-Mark of Cain (Supernatural), no gadreel, sam survives the trials, set in season 9, updating these tags as i go, watch me not be able to finish this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlovescock/pseuds/deanlovescock
Summary: “You know, you piss me off sometimes. You’re incorrigible,” Castiel says. Dean hears a huff and realizes it’s from his own mouth, a grin pulling at his lips.“Nah, you love me.” He regrets the words as they leave his mouth. In the middle of a snowy Vermont night, he hears Castiel hum as he soaks the words in.“Yeah.”Dean barely hears it. His pulse flutters and he looks down at the dwindling cigarette sitting comfortably between his pointer and thumb. He throws it onto the damp asphalt, putting the heel of his boot into it. The embers die out.“We should get to bed. It’s late,” Dean rushes out. Castiel hums again.They won't talk about it in the morning.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Nicotine and Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how often I'll update this but this is my first actual attempt at writing a fic. Thank you brando and syd for betaing this.

**ONE**

The only thing Dean could focus on was the way his coat was soaking into his skin. It was a leather one he’d thrifted somewhere in Maine — the snow had gotten worse while they were there and he’d stumbled upon it after a few drinks. The way it smelled of barley and cigars reminded him of his father. 

He shook the thought from his head.

They had moved on from Maine to Cabot, Vermont, looking into a case of what seemed to be werewolves. The local newspaper talked about two girls that went missing after leaving a dive bar. Police found a set of car keys on the ground next to an old Toyota and matched the plates to one of the girls — they declared a search of the town. The girls were found dead a few days later. 

Dean flicked the butt of the Marlboro between his fingers, ash raining down to his boot. Cas hated it when he smoked. 

He was leaning against the Impala outside the motel in nothing but his coat and sweats. A ratty _ACDC_ shirt was hugging his chest underneath but it still stung to sit outside in the high 20s, doing nothing but smoking a cigarette. The motel door opened and his shoulders tensed.

“It's 27 degrees out, what the hell are you doing?” A baritone voice filled the quiet parking lot, something he thought about too much for comfort. He glanced over at Castiel, flicked his eyes quickly over his face, then looked down at his crossed ankles. Sam was still asleep.

“Smoking.” His voice was rough. It was his third cigarette of the hour.

“You’re gonna kill yourself, you know that?” He felt the man come closer. His steps were light and silent, even after falling from grace. Dean briefly wonders how painful that was, wonders if he could match it to his own pain. A warm hand grabs his wrist and brings the cigarette up to chapped lips, the embers lighting up with that pull of air.

His hand drops when Castiel exhales. 

Dean watches as snow falls around them. It’s a light dusting, the one that melts as soon as it hits their bodies. He notices how some of the snow has caught in Castiel’s hair, breath coming out in long puffs as if he was annoyed. Dean realizes he is. 

“Did you need somethin’ Cas?” He flicks the butt of the tobacco again, the ash disguising itself as snow on it’s way to the ground. He hears a sigh from his left and looks over again at the angel — _at Castiel_. 

“I hate it when you smoke. Especially now. Especially when I can’t heal you after.” His voice was quiet and timid, but still rough from the drag he just took. He’s staring at the motel sign, watching as the letters that spell ‘VACANCY' flicker on and off. This place was cheap. Castiel was sleeping on the pullout couch; he sleeps now.

“Yeah? Well, maybe I never wanted to be healed, Cas,” Dean’s voice is still gritty, the smoke starting to hurt his throat the more long pulls he takes. He hears a shift in clothing as Castiel turns to look at him, feeling his gaze burn the side of his face in the freezing weather. 

“You know, you piss me off sometimes. You’re incorrigible,” Castiel says. Dean hears a huff and realizes it’s from his own mouth, a grin pulling at his lips. 

“Nah, you love me.” He regrets the words as they leave his mouth. In the middle of a snowy Vermont night, he hears Castiel hum as he soaks the words in.

“Yeah.” 

Dean barely hears it. His pulse flutters and he looks down at the dwindling cigarette sitting comfortably between his pointer and thumb. He throws it onto the damp asphalt, putting the heel of his boot into it. The embers die out.

“We should get to bed. It’s late,” Dean rushes out. Castiel hums again. 

They won't talk about it in the morning.

**. . .**

Dean’s lungs burn with the exertion of running from a full pack of werewolves. He should’ve laid off the Marlboros. There were at least four of them behind him, his leather coat creaking with the movement of his arms as he pulled himself over a wooden fence. _Get back to Cas and Sam_ he tells himself. 

He has a gash on his forehead and deja vu washes over him. He feels like he’s twenty nine again. 

Blood trickles down his face, his eyelashes damp as it makes its way to his chin. It’s gonna be a bitch to sew up. Thank God for Jack Daniels. His boot snags under a root and he almost trips, catching himself on a tree branch before his face meets the Earth. In the distance, he hears his name being called. He runs in that direction until his whole body aches.

Once he gets into a clearing in the farmland, he more or less crashes right into Castiel. Arms pull him to his feet as he collapses from exhaustion. He’s moved to stand behind Castiel as gunfire goes off. Six to be exact. Four meet flesh and two hit the trees. Blood soaks the grass as Dean struggles to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against the spot between Castiel’s shoulder blades. 

“Jesus Christ, I haven’t ran that fast in years,” he huffs against the nape of Castiel’s neck. A chuckle comes from the body he’s draped over. Dean pulls back to see a dark red blotch soaking the green button up Castiel is sporting and he furrows his brows. The adrenaline is starting to wear off and his head is pounding. 

Castiel turns around, suddenly way too close to those blue eyes and willing mouth than he’s usually familiar with. He clears his throat and casts his eyes downwards, shakily stepping back to give them some room. A warm fingertip touches the wound and Dean flinches on instinct, the pain unpleasant but welcomed. 

Dean watches as Castiel pulls his hand away, staring hard at the blood before he wipes it off on his already ruined shirt. He clenches his fist. For a moment Dean thinks Castiel is about to cry, but his eyes harden and he glances up to catch forest green. Sam comes back from the road where the Impala sits and holds out a rag for Dean to press to the wound. It smells like whiskey. 

He watches as Castiel moves back to where Sam had come from, making his way to the Impala to take stock of what they have left. Sam glances back to his retreating form, long hair catching in the November wind as he watches. He still has wrappings around his hand from the trials. Dean has to remember his baby brother is still alive from time to time, the coma that lasted all of October still taunted his thoughts. 

“How are you?” Dean asks, the rag meeting his head with a hiss as the alcohol stings the wound. Sam chuckles and glances back at his brother. 

  
“How am _I_? You’re the one with the gash in your head.” Dean rolls his eyes and switches the hand he’s using to hold the cloth. 

“I’m fine. I kinda wish you’d stop asking me that though,” Dean mumbles, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It’s almost 4:30 and the sun is starting to set, the permanent set of clouds making the sky a dark grey. 

“Dean, I was in a coma for a month. The angels fell... Cas fell. It’s a lot to take in, especially for your emotionally constipated ass.” Sam’s lips pull into a smirk at the last part. Dean huffs and starts making his way to where Castiel is sorting through the trunk, his shoulders pulled taut. 

“Hey,” Dean says as he stands next to Castiel’s form, his eyes hard as he looks through the bullet box labeled _WEREWOLF,_ counting how much they have left for the next hunt. When Castiel doesn’t answer him, Dean knocks his hip against his and fingers stop moving around the silver. “You okay? I know it’s hard-” He’s immediately cut off when Castiel looks up at him with a glare.

“You don’t know a damn thing about how hard this is right now, Dean.” His eyes, though thawed out from their previous deflection, are still angry. It’s resigned anger as if he knows he’s lost and giving in wouldn’t do any good. Dean swallows and looks down at where his callused hands are resting against the bumper. He nods and looks back up to catch the angel’s eyes because dammit, he’s still an angel, grace or not. 

“I know Cas. Sorry.” Those words have become reflexive. Dean forgets that Castiel lacks the ability to fly or visit home, but he guesses it’s been a long time coming anyway. “We should start heading back, my head is killing me and Sam wants to stop at that burger joint in Marshfield he saw online.” Castiel nods and closes the box of bullets. 

The trunk shuts with a click and they all get in the car. At this point, the cloth that’s been glued to Dean’s head is an unsettling pinkish red. He sits in the back with Castiel and switches out the cloth for a cold can of beer from the cooler under the seat. It stings but it keeps him conscious while soothing the throbbing ache. Mindlessly, the cloth is taken from his hand, his palm damp and stained red. 

Sam turns on the radio and old country wafts through the Impala softly. Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat, a sigh running itself through his nose. His head hurts, his body is aching from adrenaline and he wants nothing more than to lay in that shitty motel bed and never wake up. 

The next time he opens his eyes, the beer can is forgotten on the seat and his head is resting against Castiel’s shoulder. His body feels like jello as he picks his head up and looks out at the motel parking lot that progressively gets closer. When they park, Dean gets out and stretches his legs, the strain going to his head and making him wince. He blindly pats his back pocket for his box of Marlboro cigarettes. 

When he pulls one out, Sam shoots him a knowing glance and disappears into the room with the duffel slung over his shoulder. Castiel lingers, leaning against the door next to the man as he smokes and Dean’s reminded of last night. 

_Yeah._

He looks at Castiel and offers the cigarette sitting between his fingers. Just like every other time, Castiel grasps his wrist and brings it to his lips, the brush of them barely felt against his fingers. The first time he’d done that was years ago. 

_Why do you do that? Just take the cigarette yourself._

_Dean, if you’re gonna slowly kill yourself with shitty tobacco, then you may as well take me with you. I’d rather die by your hand than anyone else’s. Especially my own._

He smiled at the memory. Some would probably find that conversation concerning, but not them. They’ve been kicking each other's asses since Dean was thirty and Castiel was Heaven’s puppet. Blood and grace mingled on pavement and bruises that have been received on either side. 

A little bit of nicotine isn’t much different.

Dean throws the cigarette on the ground and crushes it, the sound of his boots against loose gravel loud. “Come on, let’s go inside. Freezing my ass off out here.” He pushes himself off the Impala door. 

Castiel smiles, something small, and follows him back to the room. 


End file.
